Branson Bites
by history lady 24
Summary: Modern AU. Glimpses into some moments shared by the Bransons (with brief appearances of other family and friends) as they live their life in a crazy, tough, beautiful world. Not S3 compliant. Not chronological, probably.
1. Chapter 1

_Branson Bites_

_Now before you get your hopes up – no, it's not that kind of fic. At least not completely. What it is, I think, is a series of little sound bites and such about the Bransons. It's AU, it's Modern, and the backstory will be very loose – very loose indeed, perhaps. At the present moment there's no real arc to the story, though that could change, if I ever get around to learning how to actually write a real plot. In the meantime, though, my intent is to just fiddle with my favourite characters, and peak in on some of their better, sweeter, funnier moments. _

_Disclaimer - Not my characters, though I like to think I'm nicer to them..._

* * *

**The Branson Flat, London**

"Tom?"

A dark blonde head turned slightly as Tom looked up from his tablet and at his wife, who half sat, half lay, on the bed next to him.

_God, she's beautiful_, he thought for about the millionth time in his life, his eyes drifting down her, from her tousled brown curls (now much shorter than they had been before their wedding) to her lovely ivory neck, to the slender fingers that rested on her large belly, all the way down her longs legs, finally ending at the two pale feet, twitching casually.

"Tom…." she whined again, trying to bring her husband's blue eyes to her face. She exhaled heavily, clearly irritated by her husband's refusal to meet her gaze. "Really. Even you can't possibly be looking at me that way when I'm this fat."

He laughed softly at this. _That's Sybil,_ he thought idly. _And yes, I can. I can't stop, if I'm honest with myself. _Letting the tablet fall onto his lap, _wasn't doing me any bloody good anyway, as I can't seem to concentrate on anything tonight besides her,_ he obliging rolled onto his side, propping himself on an elbow.

"Is this better?" he said, wiggling his eyebrows at her as he made a big production of opening his eyes wide and staring intensely at her.

"Tom!" she laughed it now, a hand coming up into the air to bat at him.

"Hey! Watch it! You'll break my new sexy specs!" Tom's hand raised up to shield the new glasses he'd just started wearing recently.

"You and your sexy specs." She rolled her eyes. "I still can't quite get used to them. They make you look so – "

"Old," Tom intoned flatly. Reaching up a hand to pull them off his face, he held them out for both of them to examine. "So. Fecking. Old." He sighed dramatically. "I thought if I got the plastic sort, they'd be better. But….

Sybil giggled and reached over to grab them from him. Taking them from his hand, she perched them on the end of her nose. "All right, class. Everyone please take their seat. Professor Branson wishes to begin his lecture."

Laughing, Tom reached out a finger to poke Sybil in the ribs, thereby causing her to squeal loudly, thus squelching any attempt she might make to continue making fun of him.

After a brief flurry of tickling, Sybil reached out and grabbed both of Tom's hands in one of her own. "You have to be nice to me!" she scolded him, pausing only for a moment, the other hand reaching up to push his glasses, which still rested on the end of her nose, up a bit. "I'm having your baby!"

At this Tom leaned forward, grinning, and placed a giant wet kiss of Sybil's stomach. "Yes Mum!" he responded.

Instead of moving back to his own side of the bed, though, he kept his head there, next to her stomach, his cheek resting on the soft and stretchy cotton of her shirt. Unable to resist the charming man before her, Sybil reached down a hand to stroke his hair gently, a touch that she knew he loved.

Indeed. The look on Tom's face had now turned from happiness back to adoration, as he gazed at his bride.

Sybil smiled back, her full lips curving slowly upward. After a few moments of silence, she spoke softly. "We make quite a pair, you and I. You getting older every day, and me getting fatter."

Tom grinned. "Aren't you getting older too? Or have you found El Dorado and you've not told me?"

Ruffling his hair slightly, Sybil sighed. "Hardly. I feel like every day is a year at this point. I can't believe I've still a few weeks to go."

At this, Tom rubbed her belly. "She'll come soon, love."

Sybil nodded wearily, her eyes watching her husband's hand as he stroked her taunt stomach, hoping, as always, to get a small rise out of the child resting beneath her skin.

"She always calms down when you do that. It's amazing. I can hold my stomach all day, and it doesn't affect her in the least. But all you have to do is come near, and she instantly settles in." Sybil's voice was soft and sweet.

"Do you like being pregnant?" Tom asked, the question suddenly flying from his lips.

Sybil smiled, a weary but contented expression on her face. "It's a bit odd, really. Knowing that I have a bit of you inside of me, always."

An eyebrow rose at this, Tom's expression becoming rather cheeky.

"I can arrange for more, if you'd like..." he trailed off, his eyes starting to get a bit darker at the thought.

Pulling her hand from Tom's hair, she cuffed his ear slightly. "It is odd, really. Knowing that the baby is with me everywhere. Even when we make love…" She turned just a slight shade of pink at this.

Tom laughed. "I guess I've never really thought of her that way – our little interloper."

Sybil smiled at this, her fingers going back to working his hair again. "It is rather peculiar, though, the changes that my body's made." She raised her other hand then, to gesture vaguely. "There are parts of my body that I can't even see anymore. I have no idea what's happening anymore with significant bits of the bottom half of me. It's as though everything down there – my feet, for instance, have pretty much ceased to exist!"

Tom wrinkled his eyes slightly at this. "You can still see your feet! Surely!"

Sybil tilted her head slightly, leaning to one side of the pillow. "If I try, I suppose." At this she turned her left ankle out, so that her foot was parallel with the mattress. Wiggling her toes, she gave a little giggle. "I guess it is still there! Though God knows what they look like."

At this Tom reached up and plucked his specs from her nose, to her protest, and resettled them on his own. Making a big production of flipping around on their large and fluffy mattress, (the one real luxury item she'd insisted on when they bought furniture together…which ended up being a rather good investment as they did spend an inordinate amount of time on it) Tom, his own toes now near Sybil's head, made a large to do of peering at hers.

"Well, they all still seem to be here. Eleven – er, nope. I suppose there's only ten."

Sybil laughed. "Couldn't prove it by me." She sighed and leaned back, then, stretching her toes out as far as she could in front of her.

_God, I can remember when they were always painted. When I was a kid, when Mama would have Sarah and Anna, from the salon in the village, come in Thursday night, in the summer, and all of us, Edith, Mary, Mama and I, would get our toes done, and our nails if we wished, and she'd give the most fantastic massages…._

She groaned. _I suppose I lied when I told Tom that I wouldn't miss the luxury. There are some things, rather, that would be nice to have back. At least every now and then._

Her eyes opened then, as she felt her husband grab one of her big toes, still obviously in a rather playful mood. _Not that I'd trade him for any of it. I can live with unpainted toes._

"This little piggy went to market…."

Sybil rolled her eyes and laughed softly. _Though God knows that it would be nice to have them done, before I go in to hospital …._

"This little piggy stayed home…"

_I wonder if…_

"This little piggy had corned beef…"

Sybil laughed again, her hand coming up to cover her eyes. "Roast beef, Tom. It's roast beef."

"Hush. You married an Irishman. It's corned beef." He grinned at this, and then started to giggle with her.

Fighting through his laughter, he kept going, each line getting a little more absurd. "And this little piggy had none – because he was a starving working class Irishman who was being repressed by the evil British upper classes –"

She snorted at this, and shook her head. _Only my husband…._

He paused dramatically for a moment before reaching for Sybil's little toe. "And –"

A completely selfish thought crossed Sybil's mind then.

"This little piggy got a pedicure!" she said, her words rushing out, hoping to beat him to it.

"A pedicure?" Tom wrinkled up his nose slightly, still clutching her little toe. "I manage to turn your toes into a mantra calling for the end of class oppression, and that's the best you can do? A pedicure?"

Sybil tried to look sweet. "I'm growing a baby. Sod off."

Tom's eyes closed as he shook his head. In another second though, they popped back open, a look of understanding dawning on his face.

"Oh, I get it," he said, his head nodding knowingly.

"What?" Sybil raised an eyebrow.

Tom tugged on her little toe again, noticing, for the first time, that the nail on it sported the remains of some teal nail polish.

He looked up at his wife, his head shaking now, his tongue clicking in a rather old-lady-like fashion.

"I know what you want." He leaned back then, removing his hands from her feet and playing them behind his head, so he could lean comfortably on the footboard. "You," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically, "want me to paint your toe nails for you."

Sybil grinned. _And that's why I married you. _ "Well, since I am growing _your_ baby…."

Tom shifted his legs slightly, his feet coming up to rest of her pillow beside her. He lazily crossed one ankle over the other, then.

She turned and looked at his feet, her nose wrinkling.

"Tom!"

"You never complain about the fact that my toes aren't painted." He wiggled the offending digits.

Sybil giggled, moving her head a couple of inches away from them. "You're a man!"

"I am?" A hand drifted down then. Tom looked up, then, to watch Sybil's face. She was watching him quite intently, as his hand began to disappear southward in his pyjamas. "Yup. Suppose so." The hand reappeared then, and rested on his stomach.

Sybil closed her eyes, wondering if she could remove her bottom lip from her teeth, where she suddenly found it. _Of all the men I had to find sooo attractive…_

She turned, then, to stare pointedly at his feet. This time, she stretched out a hand to the bottom of his pyjama pant leg. Starting at the ankle, she began rubbing her fingers up underneath the fabric, a cheeky thought suddenly crossing her mind.

"So, if what's good for the gander is good for the goose, I suppose that means I don't have to try to shave my legs anymore, since you don't?"

Tom shook his head. "Yes, because you didn't ask me to do that too, when we were in the shower, the other night?"

"Well…you are rather better at it than me, right now," she said a bit guiltily.

"And so I'm to do your toes too?"

Sybil tried to smile her best. "Please?"

Tom groaned dramatically and reached a hand up to push his glasses up so he could rub at his eyes. "Uhhhh. The things you make me do."

"Yes. Because you don't love every minute of it. And it's not that you've ever made me do anything remotely uncomfortable! Like having sex with you in your mother's tiny little plastic shower in the middle of the day when we visited the last time!" This was accompanied by a slightly dirty look.

Tom's eyes opened again. "Hey! That wasn't uncomfortable! You told me that we should christen the different rooms of our parents houses, didn't you? Which incidentally, we are still far from finishing with your parents' home. That'll keep up busy for the next three years, at least."

Sybil attempted a haughty look. "Well, you did say you wanted a tour…"

Tom laughed. "So is that what this is about? You're still holding the shower against me? And I have to make it up to you by painting your toenails? You can't tell me you didn't enjoy it."

Sybil's hand reached up to run through her curls. "That was rather the problem. I enjoyed it a bit too much, if I remember…." She groaned, remembering the look on his mother's face when they both appeared, a few minutes later, in the hallway, wrapped in towels, to find that Mrs. Branson hadn't had to go in to work for her normal shift.

Tom shook his head. "Sorry, love. I'm Catholic. Too much guilt as a child means that I'm immune to it now. Feel free to keep trying, though, if you like. Next?"

Sybil pursed her lips, thinking for a minute. It only took a few seconds for her eyes to light up again. "There are plenty of men who give pedicures. Jimmy. He used to do – "

"Thomas' toes. And do you know why he painted his boyfriends' toes? Because they're gay. And I'm not."

Heaving a large sigh, Sybil tried to put on her most dejected face. "Fine. I see how it is. I'll just have to wait until after _your_ child is born. Of course by then I'll be so busy changing nappies and feeding the child, doing my all just to keep the small thing alive. I'm sure I'll be far too exhausted by then to worry about such trivial things as my toes, though." Crossing her arms across her chest and wiggling her toes slightly, she looked down at them. "It's fine. Too bad that I'll be too busy then to do anything that you want…."

Tom groaned loudly. "Sybil…."

At this his wife smiled prettily, voiced how _very tired _this conversation had made her, and reached over to turn off her light, turning on the bed so her back was towards him.

* * *

**Three and a half years later, at the Abbey**

"Uncle Matthew!" Saiorse jumped up as her favorite uncle stepped into the nursery at Downton.

"How's my favorite little Irish girl?" Matthew cooed, picking her up and swinging her into the air before hugging her soundly.

There was no answer for a moment, as Saorise was too busy giggling into Matthew's neck to reply.

Looking over her dark curls, he smiled at Sybil and Mary, who sat enthroned in side by side rocking chairs, Mary cradling a fussy Reggie, and Sybil just happy to be off of her feet. She was pregnant again, about seven months gone.

"What have you been doing in here? It smells rather terrible…" Matthew began, his expression turning to one of slight disgust and confusion.

Mary twitched a thin foot. "Saorise has been painting our toenails for us. She tells us that when she grows up, she wants to be a "nail painter for ladies". Mary's expression was one of amusement, as she watched Matthew look down at her feet, which sported bright orange nail polish, applied rather haphazardly on her toenails and many other places on her foot.

"We're still working a bit on colouring within the lines," Sybil added wryly, offering up her own feet for Matthew's examination. One foot had purple toenails, the other bright green, with a lopsided shamrock painted on top of Sybil's foot.

"Ah. Well, too bad that boys don't have their toenails painted. Otherwise, I might have to join in the fun," Uncle Matthew teased, as he pulled Saorise back slightly, so she could see his face.

She, however, was not deterred. "Yes they can."

A blonde eyebrow arched on her uncle's pale forehead. "Oh, really? Well, I don't think I'm quite that sort of man. Sorry, darling."

This brought a pout to the little girl's pretty face. "Oh, please Uncle Matthew? Please?"

Matthew shook his head as his wife and sister-in-law laughed softly. "No, my dear, I don't think so."

Her lower lip came out a bit further. "Please? But…." Suddenly, her face lit up as she looked back through the nursery door. "Daddy!"

Tom stepped into the room and reached out a hand to brush back Saorise's curls, which were falling into her eyes. "Yes, my love?"

"Daddy! Uncle Matthew says that I can't paint his toenails because boys don't do that. But I said that yes they can, because you paint Mommy's toenails every Thursday, and I painted your toenails at home last night!"

A brief stunned silence fell over the nursery, followed by raucous laughter emanating from Matthew, Mary, and even Sybil. Saorise watched, confused, as her father began to flush.

"Show him Daddy! Show him!"

At this point Saorise wiggled down from Matthew's arms. Turning to her father, she proceeded to drag Tom into the nearest chair, and promptly strip one of his shoes and the corresponding sock off his foot, to reveal brilliant pink toenails, that were nearly as bright as his face.

"Well," an embarrassed Tom began, watching as his brother-in-law's eyes filled with tears as he shook with laughter. "You know….we teach gender equality at our household…."

This brought a snort from his laughing wife.

They were all laughing so hard, in fact, that no one seemed to notice the presence of another man, just in the doorway.

"I just wanted to be sure everything was alright. I was passing, and wanted to be sure that the children weren't into anything they shouldn't be. It smelled a bit odd…." Robert's eyes drifted around the room, his eyes finding first his daughters, his heir, and then finally his granddaughter and son-in-law.

"Hi Grandpapa!" the small girl chirped happily. "I'm well! Come and see! Would you like me to paint your toenails too, like I did Daddy's?"

Robert's normal composure suddenly disappeared, as he let his gaze fall to his son-in-law's hot pink toes. His jaw dropped open, and then he involuntarily took a step back, his hand raising to his eyes. "Good Lord….."


	2. A Blue Eyed Handsome Man

_This chapter will make much more sense to you if you're familiar with the song Brown Eyed Handsome Man. It was recorded by many artists over the years, but no version, in my mind, has the energy of the Million Dollar Quartet musical recording. The show Million Dollar Quartet is about a legendary music recording session that took place in 1956 with Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis. It's exactly the sort of musical that makes you want to want to stand up and dance and sing along. _

_If there's one thing that might be better than a Brown Eyed Handsome Man, though, it might just be a Blue Eyed Handsome man. Thus I give you the Bransons – plus a get-down-and-boogie American grandma, known here as Gran, in this little piece. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**London, the Branson Flat**

Sybil Branson closed her eyes, but her bottom lip, and reached a fumbling hand into her purse for her keys. She knew they had to be in it – she'd just seen them not fifteen minutes before, as she sat on the tube on her way home from work.

_Somewhere. They have to be in there somewhere._

_Bugger!_ she cursed mentally. Opening her eyes, she tried to shift the bag slightly, so she could open it further. Unfortunately, the bag swung too far, and the sudden movement nearly caused her to drop her coffee container that was still mostly full of steaming hot Irish Cream coffee that she'd purchased at the tube stop on her way out.

She brought the cup up to her lips and took a deep draught. Caffeine and sugar coursed down her throat, and she sighed. _God, I love this stuff. How I ever managed to drink coffee black is beyond me…._

Just then her mobile began to sing out. Drawing the coffee reluctantly from her lips, she reached back into the abyss that was her handbag. _Wallet, lotion, lip gloss, mirror, brush, tablet, nappy –_

"Mobile!" she said to no one in particular, as she finally located it. "And my keys!"

Bringing up a hand full of plastic and metal, Sybil tried to transfer the keys to the hand that held the coffee, while answering her mobile with her other hand.

"Hello?" He -? Damn." Whoever it was had hung up, assuming that the call was about to go to voicemail. _I wonder who –_

But when Sybil looked at the screen again, there was no identifying name or number, just the word "restricted". _Must be Matthew calling, from his office line. It always does that. _

_Oh well, he'll call back later. Probably wanted to talk to Tom, anyway. _Sybil smiled at this. She loved that her husband had become so close to her cousin – and their brother-in-law – over the years. The two rarely went more than a couple of weeks between their 'men's nights', when they'd meet at a pub to eat, drink, watch some type of sport, and argue over politics.

_Knowing Tom, his mobile is probably still in his coat pocket, where he didn't hear it. And when Matthew can't get ahold of him, he'll always ring me next. With any luck, though, Tom's in the kitchen already, feeding Saoirse and making dinner for us._

Throwing her own mobile back in her purse, Sybil reached for her keys and inserted the largest silver one into the lock. Twisting it, she pushed on the door, and let herself inside.

As she stepped across the threshold of the Branson's small flat, Sybil breathed in deeply. _Lasagna. Or manicotti. Or maybe even ravioli._ It was all there – the tomatoes, the garlic, and the onions. _And sausage. Definitely must be lasagna, then._

Sybil smiled. Tom normally made something Italian for her at least every couple of weeks. Despite being born and bred in England, Sybil had inherited her mother's American taste for Italian food. Tom, always searching for some new sort of challenge, had taken it upon himself to learn to cook the cuisine when they were dating, after her mother gave him an Italian cookbook one year for Christmas, hinting that while food was generally thought to be the way to a man's heart, it might be worth giving it a try with her youngest daughter.

Dumping her purse and the other bags of nappies she'd picked up on the way home onto the small bench that sat just inside of the door, Sybil began to discard her winter wrapping. First came her knitted cap, releasing her short brown curls, which she proceeded to shake out, and then her matching long scarf, which she set about untwisting from her neck. Placing her coffee on the bench next to her bags, she shrugged out of her coat. Turning, she hung it on one of the hooks over the bench.

_Need. More. Coffee._ Reaching down, as though driven by some sort of innate drive, Sybil grabbed her cup and drank another deep draught. _Much better,_ she thought. It had been a long day, beginning with a fussy Saoirse in the wee hours of the morning, and then continuing on with a twelve hour shift at hospital. If she was going to make it another few hours, long enough to put both her adorable, if slightly neurotic child to bed, and then put her needy husband to bed – a thought that brought a wicked grin to her lips – she was going to need to finish this coffee, down to the last drop.

Just as she brought the cup down from her lips, about to call out her normal "Mum's home!", she stopped, startled by the sound of a piano streaming from her kitchen.

_Bah dat dat dat duh dah! Bah dat dat dat duh duhn!_

She smiled and shook her head. Turning to peak around the corner and into the kitchen, she was met with a sight that sent her into a torment of giggles – her husband, stocking footed, sliding across the narrow galley kitchen floor towards Saoirse's high chair. His head flailing in time to the music, fringe flying about, Tom grinned at his daughter as he played a vicious air guitar on an empty lasagna noodle box and began to sing along.

"_Arrested of charges of unemployment _

_He was sittin' in the witness stand_

_The judge's wife called up the district attorney _

_To say 'free that brown eyed man'_

_If you want your job you'd better free that brown eyed man."_

Sybil grinned and reached up to cup her hand over her mouth to try and stifle the giggles. She stepped back just slightly so she was in the shadows, hoping to stay out of Tom's line of sight, but well within view of the performance playing out in her kitchen. _Ah, the crazy man I love! _Taking another sip of coffee, she settled in to watch the show.

* * *

**The First Christmas the Bransons Were Married**

_It had been her grandmother's idea, of course. Martha had insisted on coming for a visit that Christmas. Her explanation was that her New York apartment was being redecorated (again) and she_ just must get out of this chaos! - a_n excuse which had caused Sybil to smirk when she'd read the e-mail, as the dear woman generally seemed to create more chaos than anyone else she had ever met._

_She'd received the e-mail just a few weeks before the holiday. Martha would fly into London, where she would meet the Bransons, and then she'd continue up to York, to Downton, where the rest of the family would be celebrating Christmas. Tom and Sybil wouldn't be joining them, though, as Sybil had been dealt a Christmas Day shift at work, and they didn't really care to spend the money the train tickets would require anyway. _

_As a last minute surprise, Edith and Anthony had decided to come down from York and join the party in London as well, offering to drive Martha back north, so she wouldn't have to bother with the train. Truthfully, Sybil suspected that it was simply an excuse for Edith to visit the big city and do a bit of Christmas shopping, but she said nothing. She just smiled when her sister called her, wanting to make sure that she and Anthony wouldn't be 'spoiling their party.' 'Are you kidding?' Sybil had responded. 'Gran loves a party, the more the merrier! And we'd love to see you. So why not?' Thus the Branson/Levinson trio became a quintet._

_The evening of Martha's arrival found the five of them sipping drinks (cocktails for Edith and Martha, wine for Anthony, lager for Tom, and a Coke for Sybil) in the bar at Martha's hotel, the Langham. Sybil watched on, amused, as she witnessed Tom's attempt to try to keep pace with her grandmother's questions, as they raced from topic to topic. As the newest official family member, he had been warned to expect one of 'Gran's Grillings', as the Crawley's called them. _

_Not surprisingly, he kept up quite well, batting both answers and his own questions back at her, nearly outpacing her, even. Anthony and Edith watched the exchange with great glee, particularly when Martha nearly spit her drink across the table when Tom made a witty, yet slightly caustic remark about something Sybil's father had once said to him._

'_This one's a keeper, Sybil! You did well! And handsome too! Look at those blue eyes! Whooee!'_

_Sybil had grinned at this, smiling proudly at her handsome husband. _Yes, he's a keeper indeed,_ she thought, drowning in those very same blue eyes as they grinned at her over his glass of beer._

_The party had eventually moved into the hotel's restaurant, where Martha ordered a full five courses, winking at the waiter as she held up her glass to him. "And more of these too, kid! Keep them coming!" _

_It was sometime during the second course that Martha pulled out her iPhone and started to go over her calendar with them. She began by pushing the Bransons for a visit to the States, after the baby was born, "on me, of course my dears." The offer brought grins from Edith and Anthony, who'd been invited for a similar visit after their nuptials. "But that's something we can talk more about later," Martha said, waving her hands in the air when she saw Tom's raised eyebrows and Sybil's amused expression. _

"_First, though, we need to plan tomorrow! I'm not setting one foot in Downton before I have some time with my favorite grandchildren! Now I know, I know, I have to go and enjoy the company (at this her eyes rolled dramatically) of _that woman_ eventually, but I'm not leaving London without spending some time with you all first. I didn't cross the ocean just to hear Robert and Violet blather on about the glories of old Britain for the zillionth time. No – I want to shop and eat and go to the theatre, while being escorted by my lovely granddaughters and their handsome husbands. And then, I suppose, I'll be ready to head up north." With this she jerked her cosmopolitan up into the air and gave a slight huff. _

_Taking a deep draught, she turned to her grandchildren and grinned. "So, who's available? Edith, dear, you and I need to spend some time shopping. I simply have no idea what to get that sister of yours, as she looks down her nose at anything that's not straight out of London or Paris. Something from lttle ole' Manhattan will never do, of course." At this she stuck up her nose and rolled her eyes. _

"_And Anthony, do you want to come along? Or do you have some business to attend to? We'll forgive you if you don't want to run the circuit with us. But you must join us for dinner!" _

_Now she turned to Tom and Sybil, not waiting for a reply from Anthony. "And I know that the two of you will probably have your noses to the grindstone beginning at dawn tomorrow – " at this she turned to Edith and Anthony again. "Have you read his writing? He really gave it to both sides in that last column. Wow! That's the first thing I do now, when I get up. Turn on the old iPad and see what Tom's cranked out for his faithful followers!"_

_Sybil grinned at this, her smile wide as her husband's face flushed red. It took a lot to make Tom Branson blush. Then again, Martha Levinson was perhaps best described as, simply, 'a lot'._

"_Anyway, though, you'll have to finish up in time for an early dinner, and then I have tickets to a show that you all must see. I don't know if you've heard of it or not, as it's from our side of the pond. Million Dollar Quartet. Nice and ritzy!" she joked, winking at Tom, knowing his socialist leanings. "Nothing but the best, huh?"_

"_Of course," he responded, raising his glass in amusement._

"_And what exactly is it about?" asked the quieter Sir Anthony, finally finding space in the conversation to insert his own voice._

"_Oh – all of those handsome, sexy singers from the 1950s, when I was young. Elvis, Jerry Lee, Johnny, Carl," she said casually._

"_Sounds like you knew them quite well?" Tom half-asked, wondering what exactly his firecracker of a grandmother-in-law might reveal._

"_Know them? Are you kidding me?" Martha put her glass back on the table and pointed a finger at Tom. "Have you ever heard the stories about those women who would go to Elvis' concerts and get right down in front of the stage and then they'd throw their bras at him?"_

_Sybil bit back a laugh as Anthony's eyes began to widen._

"_So are you saying that you…."? Tom asked, clearly impressed by Martha's insinuations._

_In response, she simply shrugged her shoulders casually and said – "Well, somebody had to be the one to start it!" _

* * *

_The next night had found them all at the theatre, the younger set getting a quick education in the best that 1950s American rock'n'roll had to offer. Martha, of course, had planted herself in the middle of the crew, turning to whisper alternatively to either of her granddaughters, who were ensconced at her elbows. "And they used to say that he –" she'd start, gesturing to one of the characters, as they sauntered around the stage, crooning one hit after another. "And he was definitely the sexiest," she commented at one point, point to the actor playing Johnny Cash. "Although Jerry would have been much more fun. I saw him at a bar once, playing the piano. He had a line of empty shot glasses on the piano, and a girl on either side of him. Now he was a man who knew how to have a good time," she said, nodding emphatically._

_Nothing, though, amused Sybil quite so much as when, during the very last number – an encore of sorts - ) when Martha suddenly slid in front of her granddaughter, grabbed Tom's hand, and promptly pulled him out into the theatre aisle, pulling him into a fast swing dance. By the end of the song, there were nearly as many people watching them as the performers on stage, who, laughing, actually reached out their hands to acknowledge them during their final bow before the curtain fell. _

_Needless to say, it was a night that none of them would forget anytime soon._

* * *

_And now Tom hears from Gran more than I do, I think! _Sybil thought, with a grin. On her way back through London on her way home, Martha had one last dinner with them – a bit of a more private affair, in their little flat. When the table had been cleared, Martha had pulled out a cd of the musical's soundtrack, which she promptly presented to Tom. Then, without so much as another thought, she'd stood up, pushed their dining room table to the side of the room, and promptly gave her grandchildren a lesson in dancing, "So you can cut a rug with him and keep him in shape until I come back, darling," she said to her granddaughter with a grin.

_And now he's onto the next generation!_ Sybil watched, a broad smile on her face, as she watched her husband pull their daughter out of her high chair and begin to dance her across the kitchen as the third verse began.

"_Way back in history 3000 years_

_Back ever since the world began_

_There's been a whole lotta good women shed a tear_

_For a brown eyed handsome man_

_A lot of trouble for a brown eyed handsome man."_

As Tom begin to spin Saoirse around the kitchen, the little girl caught sight of her mother and began to call out to her. "Mummy!" she called out, giggling as Tom spun her, and then dipped her dramatically. When they came up, both her husband and her daughter were now grinning at her, a happy, if slightly idiotic expression on Tom's face.

_My God, how much do I love them!_ she thought. Placing her coffee on the table, she decided it was time to go join the dance party. Boogying into the kitchen in a very silly, Sybil way, she grabbed her little girl's pudgy hand, which was still wrapped around a couple of Tom's fingers, and joined in the party, singing her loudest.

"_A beautiful daughter couldn't make up her mind_

_Between a doctor and a lawyer man_

_The mother told the daughter _

'_Go out and find yourself a blue eyed handsome man'_

_That's what your daddy is, a blue eyed handsome man."_

Tom, hearing Sybil's slight modification of the song's lyrics, burst out laughing. In another moment, though, his mouth was covered with a happy kiss from his wife, while his daughter continued to squirm and squeal in time to the music, safe in her daddy's arms.

* * *

_Just a quick note - the next chapter of Forbidden Pleasures will be appearing later this weekend. As always, thanks for reading!_


	3. Family Traits

_I'm starting to think I should have called this fic something like Tom, Sybil, and Martha. I'm not sure what it is, but I keep coming back to her and exploring more of her story. I suppose because she just seems to be the perfect fit for this story – a modern woman who seems to be so much more like the Bransons than anyone else in the greater Crawley family. _

_This particular chapter is a prebaby bit, that takes place just after Tom and Sybil have found out that they are having a girl._

* * *

"What are you thinking about?" Tom gave Sybil an inquisitive look as he reached down to swirl the straw in the soda he was drinking.

Sybil smiled and looked back down at her plate. "I don't know."

Tom watched her for a moment, silent, as she picked up a chip on her plate and played with it idly. _She looks almost like she has a secret._

It was one of Tom's favorite expressions on his wife – that little look that told him that she was thinking something happy, something pleasing, but wasn't quite ready to share it with him yet.

He said nothing, instead propping his chin up on his fist, as if setting in to study her silently for a long while.

Sybil shifted her feet then, and bumped one of his under the table. She giggled softly when she felt him reach his feet around hers and hold them tight.

"Gotcha," he said, a sly expression creeping across his face. "Now you have to tell me what you're thinking."

Sybil bowed her head again and looked up at Tom through her lashes. "I was just wondering if the baby might have your eyes."

Tom felt a flutter in his stomach then, the butterflies that always seemed to fit about when they talked of the baby. They'd known for a couple of months, already, but Tom was still struggling to really understand that it was real. That he and Sybil had created a child, and it was there, growing inside of her.

That Monday they'd gone to visit the clinic again, and they'd been told that it was a little girl. _She,_ Tom corrected himself mentally. _She._

It was so hard to think of, that little person growing. _She. Her._

"I hope she has your eyes."

Tom smiled then, knowing that this was what Sybil must have been thinking. She seemed rather pleased with her reveal.

"What do you want her to have of me?" she asked next, as Tom continued to watch her.

He exhaled. _Hm. What do I want her to have of you. _It was so hard to think of her, that little growing idea, as possibly looking like Sybil.

He grinned then, knowing she'd hate his answer. "Your hair."

Sybil rolled her eyes and groaned. "You want to curse your child with this?" she said, reaching up to grab a handful of her dark locks.

"I think it's lovely, and you know it," he responded, throwing a one of his uneaten chips at her playfully.

Sybil reached out to catch it, but missed by a mile.

"And your talent for sport. It is so stupendous."

Sybil giggled. She was a complete nightmare when it came to any sport-like activity.

"Well, I hope she has your hair."

"Particularly the chest bit." Tom deadpanned.

Sybil snorted. "You're awful!"

"And your father's sense of humor, hopefully."

Sybil's eyes closed involuntarily. "Ugh. Let's not talk about what she might inherit from my family."

"Well, of course we all want her to grow up to be like her Aunt Mary," Tom said sarcastically.

"She does have good eyebrows." Sybil's finger rose up, and she shook it.

"And she did marry Matthew, and he's family too."

Tom smiled fondly then at the thought of his second-favorite Crawley, causing Sybil to laugh. "God, sometimes I think if you'd met him first, you'd have married him instead of me."

Tom snickered. "Mhm, maybe. But then again, Matthew can't hold his Guinness like you do…."

Sybil made a face and rolled her eyes.

"Maybe she'll be a ginger, like Edith. One for the next generation."

"She'd love that," Sybil agreed. "And so would Aunt Rosamund, and Gran. But statistically speaking, the chances of it happening are terribly rare, since there's no one in your family with red hair, save that cousin of yours…."

It's was Tom's turn to roll his eyes now. "Thank you for the genetics lesson, Nurse Crawley."

"It is fun to think about what she'll have then, from each of us."

"And our families." Tom groaned.

Sybil giggled. "Hopefully she's a good baby, like I was. Mama always said that I was the sweetest of us." She grinned proudly here.

"As you are still today," Tom quickly pointed out. "Next to Matthew, at least." He grinned, and then shook his head as though defeated. "Although, as my mother will readily tell you, there's really no hope there, love. She'll be a Branson, I'm afraid, and all Bransons are the same. Thoroughly wicked, and thoroughly handsome."

"That you are," Sybil agreed, sighing dramatically. "She'll probably be a monster at birth. Terribly needy, always wanting attention, just like her Papa."

Tom cocked his head to the wide, conceding the point. "What do you want her to call you?" he asked, curiosity evident in his tone.

"I don't know," Sybil said, stretching her legs out and up, until one of her feet was tucked up next to Tom on the bench. "I'd not thought about that."

"You call your mother Mama, and I call mine Mam."

Sybil shrugged. "Suppose we just let her do what she wishes?"

"I don't want her to call me Papa. It's much too – English."

"What did you call your father?"

"Da, when I was little, and then Dad, later on."

"That sounds very American to me."

"Maybe it was Irish first. Lots of Irish ended up in America."

"True."

"What are your grandparents? I don't think you've ever said."

Sybil grinned. "Do you really want to know? It's rather scandalous!"

Tom gave her a quizzical look. "What could possibly be scandalous in your family tree? You're descended from Lords and Ladies, while I'm from revolutionaries and other assorted Micks."

Sybil gave him an incredulous look and poked his tush with the toe of her shoe. "Do you really think Gran comes from royalty?"

"True."

"Well, Mama's never really been able to get much a straight answer from Gran, to be honest. I'm not sure if she even knows. All I know from reading between the lines is that she grew up terribly poor, during the Great Depression. Mama remembers hearing her talk about eating salads made of dandelion greens. Not that she ever told Mama that, of course. It was a conversation with her sister, once, I think, that Mama overhead."

"Really. Wow."

Sybil nodded. "I think she had quite a rough time of it, when she was young. It was my grandfather that had all the money, that Mama brought with her when she and Papa married. Gramps' father owned one of the biggest department stores in New York. That's actually how they met, Gran and Gramps. She let school when she was only sixteen, and decided to go to New York and try to make it there, on her own. She ended up working in Gramps' father's department store, at the hat counter, or something like that. Gramps was out walking the floor one day and saw her, and asked her to have dinner with him that night. She was so pleased at the invitation that she spent all the cash she had to buy a new dress to wear."

Sybil smiled, thinking fondly of the American grandparents that she loved so dearly. "I suppose it was a good investment, because they were married within a year."

"Did his family have a fit?"

Sybil smiled and then nodded. "Well, Gramps older sister never quite liked Gran, but his mother really did. Though it was a little scandalous, at first, to say the least."

"Was she pregnant?"

Sybil shook her head. "No, though I don't doubt that Gran and Gramps probably hadn't been up to it for awhile already." She paused, looking a bit like the cat who ate the cream. "No – actually the scandal was that she was a Christian."

Tom's eyebrows rose. "What? As opposed to?"

"A Jew."

"Oooh." A light dawned in his eyes. "Really!"

"Yes. So – let's tell your terribly Catholic aunt that next time we visit, shall we? That the English aristocrat that you married is not only a Protestant, but a quarter Jewish as well?" she teased.

Tom wrinkled his nose.

"His family was Russian, actually. They came just after Bloody Sunday, in 1905, when the crackdowns were getting really bad. There had always been pogroms, every now and then, but this time all of Moscow was suddenly at arms, and they fled. Gramps' parents, that it. He was born a few years after they came to the States, around 1915, I think. He was quite a bit older than Gran." Sybil looked a bit abashed. "I've heard Mama say that Granny wasn't too pleased, when she found out. My parents were already engaged, though, and told her to stuff it, apparently."

"But your mother goes to church. Did she convert for your father? Or did your grandmother make her?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding me? If Granny would have asked that, Mama never would have, just on principle. No, Gran actually raised Mama and Uncle Howard both Episcopalian. It was 'the' religion, apparently, among the fashionable."

"Ah." Tom looked thoughtful for a moment, his hand coming down to rest on Sybil's shoe. "Although Jews are actually considered Jewish through their mother's line, right? So technically your mother would have had to have converted, if your grandmother didn't."

Sybil nodded. "Right. And nobody ever told Gran she had to, so she didn't."

Tom laughed. "I can't imagine telling your grandmother to do anything. Either of them."

Sybil raised an eyebrow. "Let's hope she doesn't inherit that. Their stubbornness."

"Yes, because you certainly don't have any of it, I'm sure," Tom teased, knowing full too well how Sybil could be when she was decided on something.

Sybil squinted her eyes slightly at Tom, a smile hovering on her lips. "Right. And you're not stubborn either."

Tom laughed. "You're right. She's doomed."

"I wonder what she'll get from Granny," Sybil continued on, after she'd reached across the table and cleaned Tom's plate of his last chip.

Tom crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. "I'm hoping she inherits her endless optimism."

"Maybe it'll be her flair for hats."

"With grapes on them? Yes. She's so stylish," Tom said dryly.

"Well, you know Granny. She does like everyone dressed properly."

Tom recrossed his eyes. "I could write a book on that."

"Actually dear, you already did that. But it wasn't a book….just a satirical magazine article."

"Which sold quite well."

"Which sold quite well, even though you've not forgiven me yet because I made you sell it under a pen name." There was a teasing grin on Sybil's lips.

Shifting in her seat slightly, she arched a dark eyebrow at Tom. "You know, I think she complains about you not dressing for dinner, when we're at the Abbey, just because she wants to see you in a tux."

Tom snorted. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. So now you've convinced that _both_ of your grandmothers are secretly in love with me."

Sybil laughed. "Well…I don't think there's too much of a secret about Gran, considering she's declared her love for you already on multiple occasions.

Tom shook his head at the memory. "That woman….."

Sybil laughed. "You know you love her."

Tom folded his arms across his chest. "Well, I suppose someone in your family has to like me. Besides Matthew."

"Eh, you're two of a kind, I think. Both completely incorrigible and proud of it."

"Damn right!" Tom added emphatically. "So that's all of your family, then."

"No it's not. You've forgotten Mama. Maybe the baby will inherit her American accent," Sybil joked.

Tom began to look thoughtful, then. "You know, that's not something I'd thought about. If we're living here, she's going to grow up sounding like you."

"Is that a problem?" Sybil responded quickly.

Tom stared out into space. "No, I guess not. Though I suppose that when I thought about having children, I always thought of them having Irish accents."

"Then you shouldn't have fallen in love with an English girl, I guess."

"I guess not," Tom agreed, waiting for the next piece of food to fly across the table from Sybil's place. In another moment he was rewarded with the balled up paper sleeve from Sybil's straw, which landed neatly in his hair.

He reached a hand up to brush it away, giving Sybil a staged irritated sigh.

She laughed again and brought her second foot up to the bench, crossing one ankle over the other.

"Hopefully she has your mother's talent for cooking."

"Ahem." Tom cleared his throat.

"And yours too, of course, love. It really was so kind of you to get up and make me a hamburger last night, when I got in from work."

"At three a.m."

"At three a.m."

Tom looked down at their nearly empty plates then.

"And to bring me to the pub for another today."

He smiled.

"It could be worse, you know," Sybil said, reaching for her glass to take another drink. "When Mama was pregnant with Mary, she craved peanut butter and pickle sandwiches. And she desperately wanted this awful American stuff called Wonderbread to make it on. She used to call long distance to Gran and ask for it. And God bless her, if Gran didn't have a case of it shipped to her."

"That explains a great deal."

Sybil snickered. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"Your mother probably had a permanent case of indigestion, which caused your sister's neuroses."

"Could very well be," Sybil agreed, setting her soda down.

"And what about when she was pregnant with you?"

Sybil wrinkled her nose slightly in concentration. "I don't remember. It was watermelons with Edith. The summer she was carrying her was dreadfully hot, and Mama ate watermelon straight out of the icebox, in huge quantities. I remember that Edith used to tell people when she was little that that's why her hair was red, because Mama ate so much of it."

"That's about how I see the world, I think."

Sybil laughed. "I'm not sure what it was with me. Probably something chocolate, since I ended up with dark hair." She paused then, and tilted her head slightly. "Did your mother ever talk about what she craved when she was carrying you?"

Tom smiled, knowing this was coming. Sybil loved to ask him about his childhood, which had been so terribly different from her own. When they'd visit his mother in Dublin, Sybil and she would stay up late into the night, sometimes, Sybil asking for stories of Tom when he was young.

"I don't know if she'd remember. She was pregnant so many times that I don't wonder if she can remember one from the next."

Sybil gave him an incredulous look. "I don't think that could be true," she refuted.

Tom shrugged. "I don't know if she's ever said really, love." A wicked expression then settled on his face. He arched an eyebrow dramatically and reached down into his lower register, making what he called his sexy radio voice. "Then again, I think I do remember her saying something about it. It was bangers. Lots and lots of large sausages and bangers."

"You!" Sybil shrieked, picking her straw out of her glass and flicking drop of the last of her soda across the table at him. "Really Tom!"

In another moment they were both laughing, the other occupants of the pub giving them slightly odd looks.


	4. Twice As Nice

_Ah, the bromance. I'm not sure what's gotten into the Sybil/Tom community, but there have been a lot of great scenes lately featuring our two favorite Downton men. I had initially planned to write my first bromance piece for my Forbidden Pleasures fic, but as my computer managed to eat the chapter I'm currently working on (grr!), I decided to switch gears for a moment and try a modern take on them for Branson Bites._

_Just a note – when I mention Mary and Matthew not having children yet, I'm pretending it's by choice. Sybil and Tom wouldn't tease if there was a serious issue, as there is in canon._

_Anyway, here's to sisters, and the fabulous, handsome bromance!_

* * *

Sybil was near the door when the knock came. She turned away from her purse, which she had just divested of its last diaper, and moved to answer it.

_Knock knock._

Reaching her hand down to the knob, she swung it open and gave a happy, if exhausted, smile to the handsome man on the other side of the door.

"How are you?" he asked, dipping his head just slightly to plant a warm kiss on her cheek.

"Much better now," she said, a cheeky hint creeping into her voice. "You have no idea how happy I was when Mary texted me that you were coming to London for a few days."

"She's down in the taxi. She was afraid if she asked him to wait and then it took a moment, that he'd drive off and you'd be left waiting for another."

Sybil rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "And God forbid she ever have to talk, or even worse, take the metro," she shivered theatrically.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "I know. That's just…."

"Mary. Trust me, I understand."

Sybil turned then, and began walking back into the living room of the small apartment. "Tom? Your other wife is here!" she called out, in the direction of the bedroom.

"Hey!" Matthew groused, coming to stand beside her. "I thought I was the man!"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "You two can fight over the distinction if you like. As far as I'm concerned, though, _I _ like men, which means that Tom's the man. And thus you're his second wife!"

Matthew laughed. "Are you going to tell Mary this?"

Sybil narrowed her eyes slightly. "Are you kidding me? What happens in the Branson flat stays in the Branson flat," she said.

"Translation – you're afraid of Mary too," Matthew joked, shaking off his coat.

Sybil grinned. "I'm not going to piss anyone off who offers me dinner and a movie out, after I've been in this flat with a newborn and a needy husband for two weeks straight."

"Ah. Good point. So how is the baby?"

"Saoirse? You can pronounce it at least, I hope," Sybil, rolling her eyes.

Matthew laughed. "Saoirse. Yes, thank you," he said. "I'd be a poor future godfather if I didn't know."

"Well, we all know that her grandfather can't. Or won't," Sybil said, disgust evident in her voice.

Matthew shrugged.

"I know, I know. My father is my father, and there's nothing to be done about it. Truthfully, though, he's actually the one who gave us the idea, if you must know," Sybil began.

"Really?" A dark blonde eyebrow shot up at this.

Sybil nodded, walking over to the couch. "When Mama let it slip that he'd made some rib about having a Fenian grandchild, Tom and I decided that we might just do our best to make her that!"

Matthew laughed at this, his hand coming up to rub at his eyes. "Make sure I'm not in the room when you tell Robert that, ok?" he said.

Sybil snorted. "I'll do my best."

"So where is the little darling anyway?" Matthew asked, when he'd recovered.

"He's in the bedroom, and so is the baby," Sybil joked.

Matthew shook his head. "You're awful."

Sybil's hand reached up to grab her brother-in-law's arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "No I'm not. I'm wonderful, and so is Tom, because we've already supplied the first grandchild, thereby giving you and Mary more time to relax," she said.

Matthew nodded at this.

"And as she's nearly as beautiful as her fa – I mean mother…" Tom cracked, walking into the room with a small squirming bundle, "maybe someday she'll be forgiven for the fact that she's two-thirds Irish."

"Two-thirds? Did I miss something in my maths class?" Matthew asked.

Sybil rolled her eyes as she walked towards her husband. "Tom swears that since Saoirse was conceived in Ireland, that she's actually two-thirds Irish, not just half." Leaning across the baby, she gave Tom a resounding kiss on the cheek.

Matthew laughed.

"And she does actually have Fenian blood," Tom continued proudly.

"Ok, at risk of sounding like a complete git, what is a Fenian exactly?" Matthew asked. "I know it means Irish in slang, but is there…."

"It's a term used for the Irish cells that wanted to overthrow the British and kick them out of Ireland in the 19th century. There were Fenian societies all over Ireland and in America too, at one time. Some of my ancestors belonged to one of the cells, in Dublin, in the 19th century, according to family lore."

"Ah. So in other words, we'll need to make sure that the fire insurance at Downton is paid up, the first time you come for a visit?" Matthew teased.

"Nah," Tom replied casually. "We've moved onto different tactics now. Instead of trying to blow up the remaining aristocracy, we just make them fall in love with us and have babies with them, so the blue in their blood is thinned down a bit."

"Which is why he's also in love with you – you're the backup plan in case I don't work out," Sybil said conspiratorially to Matthew.

Turning to a grinning Tom, she began giving instructions. "And you, my love, have the simple job of keeping both Matthew and Saoirse happy while I'm out enjoying some freedom. We'll be gone for three or four hours, probably. I'll have my mobile on, but please don't ring me unless it's a crisis."

"Of course," Tom said, leaning in to kiss his wife's beautiful lips. "Love you."

"I love you too. There's milk in the fridge, and she'll need to be changed…."

Tom picked up his free hand to wave her off. "I know, I know. She'll not die with us, I promise."

"Right. I love you."

"You just said that, Syb. But I love you too."

"And I love you too, for coming to babysit them," Sybil said to Matthew, who was helping her into her coat now.

"Right. Have a wonderful time."

Sybil grinned. "I will. And you too. Enjoy your first real glimpse of fatherhood!" she teased, as she ran out the door.

* * *

"MMmmm…." Sybil groaned with pleasure.

Mary looked at her across the table, one delicately shaped eyebrow lifted.

"Do you always make those sorts of noises when you eat out in nice restaurants?" Mary asked pointedly.

Sybil smirked. "Only when I can embarrass my sister." _And when I can't do anything else that makes me groan happily._

Mary gave her a dark look.

"It's just absolutely heavenly to eat something that doesn't smell like baby vomit or poo," Sybil said, raising her white napkin to her lips.

"I don't think you're supposed to be eating those things," Mary said calmly as she lifted some of the pasta before her onto her fork.

"I never knew that children could vomit so much. Apparently they can't really properly swallow and digest for several weeks still, so about a third of what any infant eats ends up coming back out."

"Fascinating," Mary intoned dryly, reaching for her wine glass.

"The smell just gets into everything. Your clothes, your hair…. And the poo is even worse. It's yellow, and it smells like – "

Mary's eyes closed then. "Darling, if you ever want me to get you out of that flat again, you're going to need to stop now."

"Right. Sorry," Sybil apologized, reaching for another forkful of scallops. _Just don't say that I didn't warn you, when you get around to having one of your own…_

"You don't seem to have lost your appetite at least," Mary said, nodding to Sybil's nearly empty plate. "You polished off a complete appetizer, and now you're making nice work of your entrée," she observed.

Sybil flushed slightly. "It has to be the breast feeding, because I'm constantly ravenous…."

Mary looked around their table. "Must we really discuss this now? There are people…."

Sybil rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Just wait until it's you."

"Which it won't be. For a long while," Mary snapped quickly.

"Good luck with that," Sybil said, reaching for her water glass to take a deep draught. "You know as well as I do that we'd not exactly intended…."

"The luck of the Irish, I suppose," Mary responded dryly, causing her little sister to grin.

"Perhaps. Or just the luck of two people who…."

"So!" Mary said, cutting into her sister's speech before she could finish it. "What are we seeing tonight?"

* * *

"Just put her on your chest, and she'll just sort of slump there and sleep, if we're lucky, for awhile," Tom said, handing the small drowsy bundle known as his daughter over to Matthew.

Bright blue eyes gave him a sleepy look. "Hello there, little lady," Matthew cooed at the pale face emerging from the confines of a teal receiving blanket.

"Be careful, she communicates three ways: tears, poop, and puke," Tom said cheerfully, watching as Matthew made faces at the little bundle.

"That cute little girl? No. I think your daddy is telling lies about you," Matthew said, his voice singsongy.

Tom crossed his arms over his chest and laughed. "Just you wait. She might have a gift in there tonight for her Uncle Matthew too," he said, reaching out a hand to caress her back gently.

"Don't mind your daddy. We're going to be great friends," Matthew said, arranging Saoirse in his arm so he could look at her.

"So? What'll be it? We have beer, the remains of now three day old mac and cheese, which Mrs. Howard down the hall brought us earlier this week, and breast milk," Tom deadpanned.

Matthew's eyes shot up. "That's actually…."

Tom nodded, clearly amused. "Sybil pumps. How else do you think she could possibly be gone for four hours tonight?" he asked.

The question seemed to cause Matthew some confusion.

"Her stomach is tiny, and she only seems to keep half of it down. She has to eat every two hours, or so," Tom explained, as if Matthew were a wide-eyed ten year old.

Matthew blinked. "I'm sorry. I mean, I assumed that Sybil would probably want to….feed…..her, but I never quite imagined…."

"Seeing her milk in the fridge? Yeah, I know," Tom said, obviously enjoying his brother-in-law's discomfort.

"God. I hope I can look at her, when she gets home tonight, without thinking of that and staring at her…."

"Don't worry," Tom quipped. "She's used to it. I stare at her breasts all the time."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "So – take away?"

"Pizza, Chinese, or a curry?"

"Chinese. Mary hates it."

"Probably too foreign for her," Tom said, turning to grab the menu for their local delivery place off the top of the fridge.

"What'll it be?" he said, dialing his phone.

"Cashew chicken, and an eggroll, please," Matthew said, shifting Saoirse from one arm to the other. "Wow, she gets heavy fast."

Tom rolled his eyes as he brought his mobile to his ear. "No, you just have no muscles," he replied.

Matthew shot him a disgusted look, but then was quickly distracted as the bundle in his arms began to make little squeaks.

"Hello? Yes, I'd like to order –"

Saoirse cut off her father then with a wail, startling Matthew. With an apologetic look to Tom, Matthew rushed towards the bedroom, hoping Tom would be able to hear the person taking the order over his daughter's howls.

In another thirty moments Tom and Matthew's Chinese arrived. Tom grabbed two beers from the fridge, which Matthew now said he refused to open, and the two settled in quickly on the couch, food, drinks, and baby things scattered around them as they turned on a football match.

Other than a few critiques of either team, as well as the officials, the time passed quite normally for the two, who were easy companions. Just as the second half of the game was set to being, though, disaster struck.

Tom was up and roaming about the flat, using the loo, grabbing another round of drinks, and tidying up the food things, leaving Matthew to lounge on the sofa with Saoirse, who was still sleeping. Matthew had made noises about how he should be cleaning up since it was to be Tom's night off, but Tom brushed the comments away with a snarky, if good-natured, line about how the Irish had been bred to wait on the English for centuries, so who was he to flaunt history?

The noise ripped through the room just as Tom folded his leg underneath him on the sofa. Matthew looked up at him then, his eyebrow raised.

"Good God, man. I know it's supposed to be lads' night, but do you honestly have to sound like some sort of dray horse?"

Tom smirked. "A dray horse?"

Matthew's nose began to crinkle as he searched for the accompanying smell that he knew would be soon coming. "I know that you and Sybil don't go much for propriety, but..."

Tom started to laugh. "You thought that was me, didn't you?" he said, clearly amused.

Matthew gave him a disgusted look. "Of course it's you, you mick! You don't mean to tell me that you're going to pass a prize rip like that off on your sweet little girl whose barely big enough to ..."

Tom shook his head, his fringe falling across his forehead. "Oh yes, that sweet god-daughter of yours, who if I had to guess is currently in the process of..." He looked at Matthew's chest then, pointedly.

Matthew's eyes grew wide and his mouth began to open. "Good God Tom, there's no way that she -"

Tom nodded, his laughter growing. "Yup. My sweet little girl, daughter of an English lady and first grandchild of the great Earl of Grantham..."

"Holy shit!" Matthew exclaimed, perhaps appropriately, as he looked down to see the blanket Saoirse was wrapped in beginning to darken with moisture.

As if on cue, Saoirse opened her little blue eyes then and let out a great wail. She was closely followed by her uncle, who gasped and began spouting protest noises of his own as he reached to pull her off his chest, awareness dawning on his face that he was quite suddenly _soaked._

"I told you she communicates three ways," Tom said, his face arranged in a very pleased 'I told you so' sort of expression.

"Good God! But she's so tiny! How in God's name can she possibly make all of this...this...rubbish! It's disgusting!"

Tom shook his head. "I don't know, but she does."

"I expect this are your genes," Matthew said, standing up. "Surely the Crawleys can't..."

Tom smirked. "Ask Cora about the girls as babies sometime. She'll be happy to tell you that she spent about eight years up to her elbows in diapers when the Crawley sisters were little."

Matthew's eyes rolled. "Great. Maybe I don't want a baby. God knows that whenever I want to feel like I'm drowning in baby shite all I'll need to do is catch a train to London and come visit you."

"Here, let me take her," Tom said, reaching for the squalling child. "I'm used to it. I'll change her, and then you can clean yourself up in the loo."

Matthew's blonde head shook. "No, no, I'm supposed to be here to help. And if that means changing her nappy, then I'll do just that."

Tom smirked. "You really don't have to..."

"Nope. I'm covered in baby shite, but there's no reason you should be too. Just tell me where to find the nappies..."

"Right," said Tom, leading him into the small bedroom that he, Sybil, and Saoirse all shared at present.

As Matthew continued to rock and attempt to pacify his goddaughter into silence, Tom quickly laid out Saoirse's changing pad, a nappy, and a fresh change of clothes. "Right. Now just lay her down on her back. There are snaps there, and then you'll want to pull that up over her head..."

In a few short moments, Tom coached Matthew through his first diaper change. Despite the fact that he was still wearing a shirt covered in yellow goo, and now smelled much worse than Saoirse, who was clean and happy now, Matthew seemed quite proud with himself.

"There! Now she's clean, which means..."

"Nope!" Tom said, reaching to grab Saoirse from Matthew before he could lift her back up. "You're still a proper mess. You need to go clean yourself up, and I'll take her," said Tom, who was feeling terribly pragmatic at the moment.

"Right." Matthew looked down at himself then. "I don't...you don't have any spare shirts, do you? I'm afraid I didn't pack a bag for what I assumed would be a normal night of take away and football," he apologized.

"No trouble." Tom turned his back to Matthew then, balancing his daughter in one arm while he pulled open a drawer of his dresser. "Here," he said, flinging Matthew a t-shirt that read "Kiss Me, I'm Irish."

"Do you advertise now?" Matthew said, carefully holding the shirt at arm's length.

"Martha sent it. She thinks it's great. Saoirse has a matching one, and SYbil's reads "Kiss Me, I'm Honorary Irish."

"Ah. That explains that," Matthew said, turning to leave the room and visit the loo.

In another ten minutes the two men were back together in the tiny kitchen of the flat, Tom bouncing

Saoirse, who was growing restless. Matthew began making faces at her then, which served to amuse her for a bit.

They were getting on so well, in fact, that when Tom glanced at the clock and realized it was time for her bottle, Matthew took her without so much as a second glance to allow Tom to reheat her bottle properly.

"Can I?" Matthew asked, when Tom removed it from the microwave.

Tom nodded. "Sure. Just make sure she's tipped back properly, so she can drink well. Sometimes it takes a minute for her to latch on the nipple, but she always figures it out eventually."

Matthew nodded, looking quite intent as he offered the bottle to the little girl in his arms. When she first made no motion to take it in her mouth, he gave Tom a quick glance before trying again.

"Let a drop fall on her lips, and then when she opens them, get it in quick," Tom advised, leaning back against the counter, his arms over his chest, smiling at the site before him.

"Did you always know how to do all this?" Matthew asked Tom a couple of moments later, once Saoirse was sucking contentedly.

Tom moved his head back and forth. "Yes, and no too. It's different when it's your own, which I used to roll my eyes at, until we had her. But it's also really not. I had some younger cousins around, when I was growing up, and sometimes I'd help with them. But a lot of it's just instinct. You sort out,with trial and error of course, what she likes, and then you stick to it." Tom smiled. "Until she decides she likes something else, and then you have to learn her over again."

"Sounds like her aunt," Matthew muttered.

Tom grinned. "Or her mother."

Matthew head came up then to shake in Tom's direction. "No. Don't you ever pretend with me that you have the difficult wife. God knows I love Mary, but there are times..."

Tom smiled at this, but decided not to touch it.

Just then Saoirse made a little grunt, distracting both of the men who were content for the next several minutes to simply let her feed in silence.

When the bottle was empty, Matthew pulled it away from the little girl's face, which quickly screwed up in protest. "What do I do now?" Matthew asked, a bit panic stricken, as she started to cry again.

"You have to wind her. Just put her up on your shoulder, with a rag, and pat her back until she burps."

Tom reached around for the stack of rags that could typically be found in their little kitchen. A quick look, though, revealed the pile to be completely used up. With instructions to wait for a minute, Tom headed back into his bedroom, Matthew following at a more leisurely pace.

"Here just take one of these and…." Tom began. When he turned to look at Matthew, though, he realized that his brother-in-law wasn't in the room. "Right," Tom muttered, going back through the doorway just in time to see Matthew rubbing Saoirse back.

_Burp!_

Tom snorted at the sound. Matthew smiled initially, but this quickly twisted into a grimace. "Good God Tom, did she just puke down my back?" he asked, feeling the shirt he was wearing going wet in a different place, this time.

"I told you to wait until you had a rag," Tom said, helpfully holding up the small burp-cloth.

Matthew's eyes rolled. "Next time I come over, I swear I'm going to wear a hazmat suit," he declared.

Tom laughed. "Well, you know the routine."

"Right," Matthew said, turning to hand his still-fussing god-daughter to her father.

"There, there, a chailín mo chroí,"Tom cooed. Raising Saoirse to give her a cuddle, he was less than pleased when his daughter staged a repeat performance on his own shirt.

Matthew, however, found the situation hilarious. He laughed as Tom shook his head, telling him that his advice with the burp clothes was right on.

"Alright, you little monster," Tom cooed, kissing his daughter on the head. "You're going to have a bit of a lie down in your crib, while Daddy and Uncle Matthew clean themselves up, since you did such a nice job of making messes of us," he said, his hand stroking the curly dark brown fuzz on her head gently.

"It makes you understand why they're so cute," Matthew said, watching his brother-in-law with a smile. "If they weren't you'd put them out on the curb the first day."

Tom nodded. "You say that, but you love them the instant you see them. God knows I'd do anything for her."

"You're a good father," Matthew said, raising a hand to Tom's shoulder.

Brilliant blue eyes turned to smile at Matthew's. "Thank you."

A soft coo from Saoirse brought both of their gazes back down to the crib, where she seemed to be settling herself to sleep.

"I don't suppose you would have another shirt that I could…." Matthew began, as he caught a glimpse of his back in the mirror.

Tom nodded. "Go on, and I'll bring you one."

"Thanks." Matthew then headed back to the loo, where he stripped Tom's t-shirt off and began scrubbing himself with the bar of soap he found in the shower.

Whistling to himself, he turned suddenly, his top half nearly covered in suds, to see Tom, also bare-chested, standing in the doorway.

"Eh – bit of trouble, I'm afraid. It seems that was my last clean shirt…." Tom apologized.

Matthew's eyebrows shot up. "You don't have anything?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Not – wait. Except for that tux shirt of yours, that you gave me for –"

His speech was cut off, though, by a cheerful "Hello!" that rang out from the living room. He turned then to grin at his beautiful wife, who was looking much more relaxed than she had a few hours before.

"My! I wasn't expecting to come home to…" Sybil started, refreshed enough now that her eyebrows went up suggestively. She walked over to Tom to kiss him. As she began to put her arms around him, though, she looked over his shoulder.

"Oh! Wow! Two for the price of one! Well! Mary? I think we need to let them babysit together more often. It's not every day that I come home to two handsome, half-naked men in my flat!" Sybil exclaimed.

"I can see that you had a good time," Tom teased, his arm around her waist as he pulled her in for a quick kiss.

"Not as good a time as you two seem to have had," Mary replied, smiling.


End file.
